The One Person Who Matters
by Thorn17
Summary: John's about to get married to Mary, but something feels wrong. Even though time has passed since Sherlock's death, John is still struggling to move on. At the minute, even the idea of marriage to Mary just feels wrong in John's mind. How can everything be rectified when a wedding is only three days away? Set Post-Reichenbach. Previously entitled 'A Lot Can Go Right In Three Days'.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson would be getting married in three days time. He was engaged to a lady named Mary Morstan, a teacher at the primary school just down the road from the medical surgery in which John worked. The build-up to the imminent wedding should have been the happiest time of his life, but John had never felt more _unhappy_. More lonely, more unloved, more broken. Since moving out of 221B to live with Mary - the memories back at Baker Street had proven to be too painful, heart-wrenching reminders of a portion of John's life during which he had actually felt _alive_ - he hadn't heard from Mrs Hudson. He had no reason to see Molly any more, now that he didn't have anyone to drag him off to St Bart's hospital at a moments notice to perform an experiment on some poor cadaver. Mycroft hadn't kidnapped him in what felt like an age. Even Lestrade's phone calls, requesting John's assistance at a crime scene, were becoming even more scarce than they had been originally. He felt alone, replaced, forgotten.

As loath as John was to make the analogy, ever since Sherlock's death, everything had felt like a game. John felt like a pawn in a game of chess: an ordinary piece, certainly not unique or particularly important, and the first thing's wellbeing to be sacrificed for the sake of the other players, for the other pieces on the board. John wanted to profess to being sick of hearing about games, or any references to puzzles or problems, but he couldn't honestly do so with conviction. He missed them. He missed being on the winning side with Sherlock. They were both on the losing side now, and although it seemed unfair on Mary to say that John had lost everything, it was true nonetheless.

When asked, John couldn't give a definite answer with regards to how long it had been since Sherlock's suicide. It wasn't because he didn't _care_, but because all the days had simply blurred into one. His life was monotonous, dull, boring, tedious, and any other Sherlock-like synonym that could be thought of to describe it. John could now empathise with how his misunderstood best friend must have felt, experiencing something that nobody else could possibly hope to relate to. Being able to profess to understanding at least some of the innermost workings of Sherlock's mind was something that John would never have expected to be able to do before now. The saying about people only learning through first-hand experience was true.

"John, are you okay?"

Mary's voice roused John from his musings, making him jump. He hadn't noticed her enter the sitting room in which he sat, armchair positioned against the window, subconsciously looking for the one person on the pavement below who would never walk past. Still startled, John immediately reverted back into his 'I'm fine' facade. "I'm fine, love."

Mary didn't seem to be convinced by John's lie. She crouched down beside her fiance's chair. "Are you sure, love? You look like you've been crying."

John raised a hand to his face in order to check. Sure enough, his eyes were damp, and the skin of his cheeks were slightly tight from where streams of tears had dried on them. He'd been crying without even realising it, which was a testament as to how far he had submerged himself in his own thoughts in order to escape reality. Frantically, he began to wipe away the tears, fumbling over how to explain his current emotional state. "Oh, I must've...erm..."

"It's alright, John. I understand. The wedding's coming up soon, and it's a big change in our lives," Mary offered in lieu of a proper explanation, though they both knew that the stress and significance of the wedding was _not_ the real reason that John was crying.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. It's only natural to feel a little overwhelmed at times," replied John, grateful for Mary's understanding. He rose from his chair as Mary simultaneously stood, reaching out to embrace her fiance, to reassure him. "I don't deserve you, you know."

Mary blushed, hiding her face in John's jumper. "Don't be silly, John."

John pulled away so that he could look into her eyes as he spoke. "No, seriously, Mary. Not many women would've put up with me, especially with how I've been these last few weeks. I _thought_ that I'd been making some progress. Clearly, I was wrong."

Mary rested her head against John's right shoulder, taking care to avoid the left one as his old war wound still caused him pain. "No, love. You weren't wrong. I never knew Sherlock Holmes, personally, but from what you've told me about him, he was a good man, somebody that could be forgiven for making such an impression on you and affecting you in the way that he did."

"What do you mean, love?" mumbled John, gently resting his chin against the top of Mary's head.

"I just meant that Sherlock Holmes doesn't sound like a very forgettable man."

John lifted his head and scoffed, his voice bitter, resentful. "The world has forgotten him."

This time it was Mary's turn to pull away and look into John's eyes. "No, they haven't, love. They've just moved on. People have to, it's not healthy to dwell on things that can't be changed. Maybe you should try and move on, too."

John stayed silent, not trusting himself to answer what he deemed to be a ridiculous request from his fiancee. He just couldn't move on. Did she think he _hadn't_ been trying? Did she think that, for all of this time, he had _wanted_ to be in a state of perpetual pain emotionally?

Mary noticed that John's expression was beginning to grow stormy, and quickly clarified what she had meant. "I'm not suggesting that you forget about him, love," she said soothingly. "I just don't think that you should spend all this time thinking about him. Sherlock Holmes is your past, you and I are the future. Concentrate on something else, like our wedding, or getting ready to go back to your job at the surgery after our honeymoon."

John dropped his arms from where they had been resting upon Mary's shoulders. "I try, Mary. Honestly, I do. I know that it doesn't seem like it sometimes."

Mary stepped back, ever wary of how her fiance would respond when the topic of Sherlock Holmes was mentioned. There had only been one occasion where John had become physically volatile when lashing out over the pain of losing Sherlock, knocking ornaments off a shelf in rage, but he had never hurt anybody. It was similar to his temperament just after he had returned from Afghanistan. Now, John was more of a danger to himself at times than he was to others, especially with the added pressure of the wedding. "I know, love but I don't know what else to suggest. He's not coming back, and I'm not going anywhere. What more can I do to reassure you that you won't be left alone again, John?"

"You make me sound like a child, Mary," John argued, turning his back on her. "A child scared of being left behind by his parents on his first day of school, or something." As soon as the words left his lips, an unbidden image of Sherlock throwing what could only be described as a 'tantrum' about the solar system whilst sat on 221B's couch, accompanied by Lestrade's quip '_Well I'm dealing with a child_' came into his mind. It was as if John was being haunted by the memory of Sherlock Holmes. The man really did have to have the last word on everything, even when he was dead.

"No, love, I didn't mean it like that," Mary tentatively reached out to touch John's shoulder, but decided against it and let her arm fall back to her side. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, the paranoia that people will leave. I've experienced it in my other relationships."

"I'm not paranoid that you'll leave, Mary! I don't think there's any danger of you doing that, is there? You never leave me alone!" John snapped, whirling round again to face her. Even without looking into Mary's eyes, and seeing her hurt expression, John knew that he had overstepped the mark. Mary was only trying to help, offering advice and worldly knowledge. It wasn't her fault that she just wasn't saying the right things, the things that he desperately needed to hear. "I'm really sorry, love. I didn't mean to snap. You know that I didn't mean what I said; I don't really want you to go. Forgive me."

Her heart racing from John's quick mood change, Mary gave a small smile that was intended to be reassuring, but probably came across more as though she was in pain. "I know, love, it's okay. Of course I forgive you, it doesn't matter. Nerves, that's all it is. Nerves and stress. Everything will be fine when the wedding arrives." There was clearly a metaphorical lump in Mary's throat, full of emotion, that threatened to spill over the top as she spoke. At this point, John didn't know who Mary was trying to convince: him or herself. "Do you want a cup of tea, love?" she called, scuttling away.

Tea wouldn't make things any better, but it was a diversionary tactic that John had successfully used on Sherlock many times in order to change the topic of conversation, or to ease awkward situations. John nodded, belatedly realising that Mary had left the room. "Yes please, love."

Mary busied herself in the kitchen, summoning up the courage to ask her next question before John resumed his position by the window and lost himself in silence again. "Have you chosen a best man yet, John? The wedding's in three days! You need to get him a suit."

"Yes," lied John. "Don't worry, Mary. It's all been sorted."

This time, Mary didn't detect the lie. Sherlock would've done, but then, he wasn't here. "Good. I was getting worried, you know. Three days to go, and no best man! Who did you decide on asking in the end?"

John didn't particularly want to lie to Mary again, but she wouldn't be pleased with the truth either. He _didn't_ have a best man. He'd avoided thinking about it, just as he'd avoided thinking about the wedding. Something else - besides the obvious absence of Sherlock - felt wrong about the whole thing, but John couldn't put his finger on it. Anyway, with regards to a best man - even if the whole situation suddenly, miraculously, began to feel like it was the right thing to do over the course of a night - the only man that John would really have contemplated asking was Sherlock, but circumstances obviously rendered that impossible. John doubted that Sherlock would have agreed to do it anyway, what with the consulting detective's aversion to sentimental displays of affection, or his distaste for feelings in general seemingly. "Can it be a surprise, love? You'll see him on the day anyway."

"If you want, love. I'm just glad it's all sorted."

"Mmm," John said noncommittally, just as an idea came to mind. "You know what, love, I might skip the cup of tea, if that's alright. I need to go and see a man about a dog, if you get what I mean."

"Oh, okay," Mary said, a little startled by her fiance's sudden urge to go out. John hadn't left the house for at least a week, preferring instead to resume his position by the window and watch London pass by. "No worries, love. Just let me know when you're going to be back, and I'll have dinner ready."

John shook his head, quickly typed and sent a text message whilst shrugging on his coat. "No need. You have dinner without me. I'm not hungry, anyway." He entered the kitchen and gave Mary a quick peck on the cheek before rushing through the front door, leaving his fiancee behind in the overwhelming silence.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ah, John, there you are. How lovely to see you again. It's been too long." Mycroft gestured to the empty chair in his Diogenes Club office, inviting John to sit down, which the doctor did. The government official settled in the chair opposite John, just across the other side of the desk. "I must admit that I was a little..._surprised_ to receive your text earlier, after hearing nothing but silence from you for so long."

"Yeah, sorry about that." John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not quite able to bring himself to meet the piercing gaze of Mycroft Holmes. Needless to say, it was too painful, too reminiscent of Sherlock's stare. "I didn't know whether I should text or not. It's been so long since we last spoke, and so much has changed, and I've been really busy..." The government official raised a challenging eyebrow, and John belatedly remembered that making excuses was futile when confronting Mycroft Holmes. He sighed, and stopped lying to both himself and to Mycroft. He had lied to everybody for so long now, making excuses for failing to keep in touch and continuously telling everyone he was 'fine', that it had become his automatic reaction. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. There's no excuse, I should've been in touch. I just figured that..."

"That?" Mycroft rested his chin upon his fingertips as he pondered, causing a sharp pain flashed across John's stomach as he remembered the many occasions that Sherlock had assumed the same pose.

"That you wouldn't want to see me. I mean, I'm nothing to you. Never have been, really. When Sherlock was here, I _might_ have been somebody that you tolerated for _his_ sake. Now, I'm probably just a reminder of what you've lost, and anyway, the circumstances in which we parted just before Sherlock..well, before he...he..."

"Died?" supplied Mycroft helpfully.

The doctor nodded, never quite bringing himself to say the word in relation to his best friend. It was illogical, and sentimental, and Sherlock would have disapproved of John allowing emotion to affect him to such a degree, but John didn't care. He just couldn't do it. If he said it, it would definitely make it real. If he refused to say it, maybe - just maybe - he could wake up and find that it had all been a horrible nightmare, or that Sherlock wasn't really gone. "Yes, that. You and I didn't exactly part on the best of terms, or under the most ideal of circumstances, did we?"

Mycroft's brow furrowed as he did a quick deduction of the doctor before him, and he was visibly displeased with the consequent conclusion. "The circumstances in which we parted the last time you were here were my fault, and mine alone. _I_ made the error of judgement in disclosing Sherlock's private details to Moriarty. You did not. I wasn't there for my brother when he needed me to be. You were."

"No, I wasn't. It's my fault that Sherlock... I mean, I let him down."

"You are wrong, John. If anything, you were there when it mattered the most."

John was tempted to ask what Mycroft meant, but he didn't think he could handle reliving the moment of Sherlock's death again. He was already haunted with the sight of Sherlock falling from Bart's rooftop every night; he didn't need to break down and experience it during the day too. He coughed to clear his throat of the emotion that was rapidly building up there, threatening to form into tears and spill over. "I've noticed that you've kept the security cameras and surveillance teams in place. There really is no need, you know. I'm fine, I'm coping." Little over a minute had passed since John had resolved to stop lying to Mycroft, and here he was again. Lying through his back teeth. He clearly _wasn't _'fine', he evidently _wasn't_ 'coping'. Anybody who came into contact with John could see that, and therefore the doctor wasn't surprised when Mycroft raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"'Coping' is a bit of an overstatement, John. 'Surviving' might be a better choice of word. But yes, you are right. I _have_ maintained your surveillance status. Since I had no primary method of communication available to me any more after you refused to contact me, I had no other choice but to monitor your wellbeing through a third party."

"Yeah, well, like I said," John shifted uncomfortable again. "I didn't think my wellbeing would particularly concern you, and I didn't think you'd _want_ me to contact you after what I did, I mean..."

"I think it best not to dwell on the past, John," interrupted Mycroft, before John had chance to launch into another speech about how he had let Sherlock down. It was all complete nonsense, of course, but Mycroft could see that John was so adamant on blaming himself that anything Mycroft said would be completely ignored. Mycroft was not a man who liked to waste his breath, so he made sure that he didn't. There would come a time when John would understand that he was wrong, but that time was not now. "What's done is done, John. All we can do now is move forward."

John gave a small, sad smile. "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

John had a sudden flashback to when he'd asked Mike Stamford the same question on the day that he met Sherlock. He tried not to let the pain of _that_ memory be reflected in his expression as he answered Mycroft. "My fiancee."

"Ah yes, Miss Mary Morstan, I believe?" Mycroft leaned forward in his chair a little, having obviously found a new element of their conversation to be particularly engaging, but for the life of him, John couldn't fathom what it was. There was nothing particularly interesting about John's life. It was monotonous.

John nodded. "Yes. We're getting married in three days."

"Yes, John. I know." Mycroft gave him a look that was almost pitying. Was he pitying John for succumbing to something as sentimental as marriage, or was he pitying him for having forgotten in Sherlock's absence that a Holmes did not need to be told something as trivial as that? They would deduce it, and then proceed to ignore it as it 'wasn't worth their time'. And sometimes, it wasn't even necessary to tell Mycroft things. Some things, he simply _knew_. That was another thing that John had somehow forgotten about, having seemingly repressed it because any memory related to Sherlock was too painful to relive.

"I was actually wondering if you'd do me a favour, Mycroft."

"Of course I will." Mycroft looked affronted at the inference that there was even the slightest chance that he _might_ have rejected John's request. It was the least he could do for the doctor who had saved his brother's life in so many ways. Mycroft didn't like dramatic statements like that, but that one was perfectly apt.

John raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You don't even know what it is yet."

Mycroft smirked. "On the contrary, I do. You're very easy to deduce. But I'll allow you the courtesy of asking me."

"How kind," murmured John sarcastically, before raising his voice to a more audible level. "I wanted to ask Sherlock to be my best man, but seeing as he's...well, he's...you know..."

"Dead?" Mycroft suggested again.

John nodded, grateful for support a second time because the gut-wrenching feeling that he was weak, having not been able to bring himself to say the word, had returned. "That's why I was wondering if you'd consider taking his place, and if you'd agree to be my best man instead."

"Of course. I'd be honoured," said Mycroft pleasantly as he leaned back in his chair.

John gaped. "_Really?_" He hadn't honestly expected Mycroft to _agree_ to take part in something as - in the eyes of the elder Holmes - trivial and sentimental as marriage, especially with little or no coercion.

"Of course I will, John. I am honoured by the knowledge that you would welcome my presence at the most important and happiest day of your life, especially in asking me to fulfill such an important role. You shared a special connection with my brother, and I feel flattered that you deem me to be worthy to take his place. You held - and still do hold - him in extremely high regard."

John attempted to smile, but knew that it hadn't quite reached his eyes. "Yes, I do. Thank you, Mycroft."

The doctor's expression did not go unnoticed. Mycroft frowned, something usually reserved for when dealing with his younger brother. John should be happier than this by now, especially with his imminent wedding. The doctor was obviously not progressing as quickly as had previously been anticipated. Mycroft needed more data. "What's wrong, John?"

"Nothing," John quickly replied. A little _too_ quickly, if truth be told. John could see that Mycroft was about to deduce the answer, but the doctor couldn't bear to be reminded of all the occasions that Sherlock had done that to him, and so - with a sigh - he resigned himself to telling the government official instead, spilling his misunderstood heart out in the process. "_Don't_ do that. There's no need to deduce me every time I might want to keep a secret. You want to know what's wrong? Well, I'll tell you. The thing is, I'm due to get married in three days time, and you're right, it should be the most important, happiest day of my life. _But it's not going to be_."

Mycroft's brow furrowed again at this development. "Why? Has something gone wrong with the preparations? If you require my assistance with anything, John, you need only ask. There's no need to pretend to want me to be your best man in Sherlock's stead if all you _really_ desire is my help with organising your wedding..."

John's eyes widened with shock at how Mycroft had erroneously interpreted their conversation."No! That's not what I meant," he began to explain quickly. "I mean, thank you for the offer and all that, but I can't have you thinking that I only speak to you when I want something materialistic. I _do _want you to be my best man, there's no question about that."

"Then tell me, John. Why are you not looking forward to your wedding day? Aren't sentimental things like that supposed to be the happiest day of your life?" Mycroft frowned again, a worrying thought occurring to him. "Is it because Sherlock isn't there?"

"Yes. And no. It just feels _wrong._"

"Why? Understanding sentiment was never a strong point of mine, John. Sometimes I require more data."

John took a deep breath and began to talk, the words spilling out of his mind and into the air for the first time. He had kept his true thoughts bottled up for so long in order to please everybody who claimed to understand what he was going through, that the thought of telling his thoughts to Mycroft just because he _wouldn't_ understand proved to be too tempting an offer to refuse. "At the minute, Mycroft, I don't think I can go through with it. The wedding, I mean. I don't think I can marry Mary. Nothing about it feels right, but calling it off at this late stage would hardly be fair, and Mary doesn't deserve to have that done to her. She's tried so hard to help me, and she certainly doesn't deserve to be jilted."

Mycroft considered this for a moment before speaking. "Did Sherlock _deserve_ to die that day, John? The day he jumped from the roof of the hospital."

John's blood began to boil at the very suggestion. "How can you even _say_ that? Of course he didn't!" The doctor was incredulous, and growing very angry, as indicated by his rapidly flushing face.

"Forgive me, John, but that is exactly my point." John made no indication of having understood what Mycroft was saying, and so the government official continued with his explanation. "Things are not always fair. Indeed, life is not always kind to us. I'm hardly the expert in such sentimental matters, but if you do not feel comfortable with marrying Miss Morstan at present, then I think canceling - or even postponing - the wedding would indeed be a wise decision."

John shuddered as he allowed himself to picture the scenario. His mind filled with images of a crying Mary, a disappointed Mrs Hudson, an angry Harry, a comforting Lestrade, pitying looks from Anderson and Donovan, and it the midst of it all would be a stoic Mycroft and a broken John. Even with all those guests, the one person that John wanted to see would not be there, _could_ not be there. "I can't do that. It won't bring Sherlock back to me, and it would just cause a lot of unnecessary pain to innocent parties. I think it better that I marry her, and continue to suffer in silence, rather than hurting her. She's done absolutely nothing wrong. Besides, nobody would forgive me if I postponed or cancelled. _Mary_ would never forgive me."

"And you'd never forgive _yourself _for your actions."

"That too."

"After all, you've never forgiven yourself for _Sherlock's_ actions. You could never, therefore, be expected to forgive yourself for your own."

John looked the government official in the eye as he spoke. It was the least Mycroft deserved after John had failed both Holmes brothers. "No matter what you say, Mycroft, it _is_ my fault that Sherlock's gone. I failed him. _I'm_ responsible for what happened to him. If I'd stayed with him, or if I'd reached him sooner, then..."

"Then nothing. It's not your fault, and never has been. If you must blame somebody, blame me."

"No, it's not your fault. It was Moriarty." John spat the consulting criminal's name as if its very existence was a personal insult to him, which it was.

"True, Jim Moriarty _was_ to blame, but so was I."

John shook his head, having wrongly blamed Mycroft for too long. "You never intended for the information you gave him to be used maliciously. Moriarty did. You provided it with the intention - however misguided - of protecting both Britain and Sherlock. That's the difference between you and Moriarty. Mycroft, you did what you thought was right at the time."

"So did you."

"What do you mean?"

"You only left my brother's side that day in order to aid another. Namely, your landlady, Mrs Hudson. You were led to believe that she had been shot. Otherwise, I have no doubts that you would not have left Sherlock's side in his time of need, even for a second."

There was a long silence as John tried to subdue his emotions. He refused to cry in front of Mycroft. "Well, I guess we'll never know now."

"Trust me, John. I am right. Had you not received that phone call, you would not have left him. The two of you were inseparable, and it seems that you still are."

"What do you mean, Mycroft?"

"Although you've never told me in your own words exactly _why_ marrying Miss Morstan feels 'wrong', I think that we both know the reason."

"Sherlock?" John hadn't meant for it to sound like a question, but he was so unsure of himself right now that he doubted everything. His self esteem had plummeted dramatically. He had regressed to his pre-Sherlock state.

"Yes, John. _Sherlock_."

John pulled a face, one which Mycroft couldn't easily classify as being a particular emotion. "You're not suggesting that you think that I'd rather be marrying_ Sherlock_, are you?"

Mycroft had the audacity to chuckle. "No John, I'm not. You see, in the past, I have been to many important social gatherings, for one reason or another. One such event was the premier of a film, to which I agreed to accompany an important associate in order to gain information. The name of the film escapes me now as I deemed it to be irrelevant at the time, but I distinctly remember hearing the following quote. 'Sometimes in life, there really are bonds formed that can never be broken. Sometimes, you really can find that one person who will stand by you no matter what. Maybe you'll find it in a spouse and celebrate in with your dream wedding, but there is also the chance that the one person you can count on for a lifetime, the one person who knows you, sometimes better than you know yourself, is the same person who's been standing beside you all along.'" Mycroft paused and made sure that John's eyes were fixed on him before continuing. "It's extremely clear to me, John, that you have met your 'one person'. All that remains now is for you to admit to yourself that your 'one person' isn't Mary."

John had never heard the elder Holmes speak for such an extended period of time, possibly due to the fact that Sherlock had always interrupted his brother just to irritate him. His brain was currently struggling to process everything that Mycroft had just said, but even though he was bewildered, he could understand the logic and truth in Mycroft's statement. Mary _wasn't_ John's 'one person', however much he wanted her to be. John's 'one person' was a dead man - a dead _detective_ - and the realisation of this just made John even more despondent at his predicament. What did this make him? How could he break the news to the lovely Mary that she had lost him to a dead man?

John was vaguely aware of being dismissed from Mycroft's office by Anthea, whom had stated that the government official had an important meeting approaching. On the way home, he half-remembered agreeing to communicate with Mycroft directly at least once a day, either with wedding arrangements or situation updates, depending on whether or not he could bring himself to cancel the wedding. What he missed completely, however, was Mycroft sending a text from his own personal phone, without asking Anthea to do it for him. The government official only did_ that_ for people he deemed important and worthy of his time, and so if John had seen him do it, the doctor may have begun to wonder about the identity of this rare, important person, who was evidently of a high enough priority to merit an actual text from Mycroft, and not one of the customary phone calls that the government official loved so much.

**Author's Note: The quote that Mycroft recalls is from the film 'Bride Wars'. I apologise for changing the title of this story from 'A Lot Can Go Right In Three Days' to 'The One Person Who Matters', but I feel that this new title will reflect the content and plot of the story better. Apologies for any confusion!**


End file.
